It may be that it was at this moment that Uncle Samuel finally made up his mind about Jeremy.In spite of his dislike,even hatred of children,he had been coming slowly,during the last two years,to an affection for,and interest in,his nephew that was something quite new to his cynical,egoistic nature.It had leapt into activity at Christmas time,then had died again.Now as,flung first into his sister's bony arms,then on to the terrified spectacles of his niece Mary,he tried to recover himself,he was caught and held by that picture of his small nephew,seated,solid and square,in his blue sailor suit,his bare knees swinging,his hand clutching his precious box with an energy that defied Fate itself to take it from him,his mouth set,his eyes staring,radiant with joy,in front of him.
On arrival at the station it was found that the one o'clock to Liskane was "just about due,"so that there was no time to be lost.
They had to rush along under the great iron dome,passing by the main line,disregarding the tempestuous express from Truxe that drew up,as it were disdainfully,just as they passed,and finding the modest side line to Liskane and St.Lowe.Here there was every kind of excitement for Jeremy.Anyone who has any kind of passion for observation must have discovered long ago that a side line has ever so much more charm and appeal about it than a main line.A main line is scornful of the station in whose heart it consents for a moment to linger,its eyes are staring forward towards the vast cities who are impatiently awaiting it;but a side line has its very home here.
So much gossip passes from day to day above its rails (and gossip that has for its circumference five green fields,a country road,and a babbling brook),that it knows all its passengers by heart.
To the people who travel on a side line,the train itself is still something of a wonder.How much more was that true thirty years ago.
On this especial line there were only two stations-Liskane and St.
Lowe,and,of a certainty,these stations would not even now be in existence were it not that St.Lowe was a fishing centre of very great importance.The little district that comprehended St.Lowe,Garth in Roselands,Stoep in Roselands,Lucent-Polwint,Rafiel,and all the smaller hamlets around them,was fed by this line;but,even so,the little train was never crowded.Tourists did not,and even now do not,go to Polwint and St.Lowe because "they smell so fishy,"nor to Rafield "because it's too far from the railway,"nor to the Roseland valleys "because there's nothing to see there.",May these reasons hold good for many years to come!
Today there were three farmers in brown leggings,with pipes,and thick knotted walking-sticks,two or three women with baskets,and a child or so,and an amiable,absent-minded clergyman in a black cloth so faded that it was now green,reading The Times,and shaking his head over it as he stumbled up and down the platform.One of the farmers had a large,woolly sheep-dog,who,of course,excited Hamlet to a frenzy.Jeremy,therefore,had his time fully occupied in checking this;but he had,nevertheless,the opportunity to observe how one of the farmers puffed the smoke out of his cheeks as though he were an engine;how one of the women,with a back as broad as a wall,had red stockings;and how the clergyman nearly fell on to the railway-line every time he turned round,and only saved himself from disaster by a miracle.The train arriving at last,they all climbed into it,and then had to wait for a hot,grilling half-hour whilst the engine made up its mind that it was worth its while to take all the trouble to start off again.
"An hour late,upon my word,"said Mr.Cole angrily,when at last,with a snore and a heave,and a grunt and a scream,they started.
"It's really too bad.I shall have to complain,"which,as everyone present knew,he had not the slightest intention of doing.In Jeremy's carriage there were his father,his mother,Uncle Samuel,himself,Mary,and,of course,Hamlet.Hamlet had never been,in a train before,and his terror at the way that the ground quivered under him was pitiful to see.He lay first under the seat,trying to hold himself tightly together,then,when that failed,he made startled frenzied leaps on to laps (the lead had been removed for the time),finally he cowered up into the corner behind Uncle Samuel,who seemed to understand his case and sympathised with it.
Whenever the train stopped (which,being a Glebeshire train,it did continually),he recovered at once his savoir-faire,asserted his dignity,gazed through the windows at the fields and cows as though he owned them all,and barked with the friendly greeting of comrade to comrade whenever he saw another dog.
The next thing that occupied Jeremy's attention was lunch.Many people despise sandwiches and milk out of beer-bottles and bananas and seed-cake.Jeremy,of course,did not.He loved anything eaten out of paper,from the ice-cream sold by the Barney man in Polchester Square (only once did he secure some)down to the frills that there are round the tail of any self-respecting ham.But the paper on this journey to Rafield!There was nothing in the world to touch it.In the first place you spread newspaper on your knees,then there was paper under the sandwiches (chicken),and more paper under the sandwiches (beef),and still more under the sandwiches (egg);there was paper round the seed-cake,and,most wonderful of all,paper round the jam-puffs.Jam-puffs with strawberry jam eaten in the odour of ginger-beer and eggshells!Is it possible for life at its very best to hold more?He kept his jam-puff so long as he could,until at last Mr.Cole said:"Now,my boy!Finish it up--finish it up.Paper out of the window-all neat and tidy;that's right!"speaking in that voice which Jeremy hated,because it was used,so especially,when cod-liver oil had to be taken.He swallowed his puff in a gulp,and then gazed out of the window lamenting its disappearance.